


Who He Is, And How To Move Him

by Marquise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Deals, F/M, Loss of Virginity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-21
Updated: 2012-06-21
Packaged: 2017-11-08 05:40:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/439763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marquise/pseuds/Marquise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Petyr Baelish wants her, but she comes at a price.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who He Is, And How To Move Him

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Porn Battle on the gameofships lj community.

She knows men.

Better, she thinks, than Petyr expects her too. Her time in King’s Landing was painful and best forgotten (and of course, that is a part of Sansa Stark’s past and that girl is dead and buried) but there are some lessons she retained. From the Queen, mostly, and though she knows now that the Queen did not have half the power she claimed, she can see the wisdom—or better, the truth—in most of what she said.

She thinks Petyr would understand, though of course Alayne would never bring the subject up. But after all, didn’t he tell her that once you know what a man wants, you know how to move him?

Surely he can’t fault her. After all, he made it all too obvious what he wants.

\----

It’s well past midnight when she decides to act. Later than proper, but this has become a habit with them—working side-by-side until the early morning. He has all the myriad problems of the Vale to deal with, and he seems more than willing to let her observe. It is a queer form of instruction, but instruction nonetheless and accompanied by an unmistakable growth in intimacy. 

Usually aided by wine. And she can’t help but notice how _sloppy_ Petyr has become over the past few weeks. In the past he would carefully sip at his drink throughout the night, but lately he’s been drinking until he is well in his cups. She has to think that this kind of sloppiness can only work in her favor. Alayne makes sure she only sips at her wine, and the heat of the rooms (a blessed spot among the pressing cold of the Vale) works in her favor. Her cheeks redden quickly, making her appear more gone than she actually is (though, in truth, the wine does do more than its share of the warming. It’s just that she checks herself better than Petyr).

Petyr initiates, as he always does. He pushes aside the scrolls they had been reviewing and takes her hand in his, brushing his thumb along the pulse in her wrist. Alayne tries to remember to detach herself, to keep her wits about her and not give in entirely to his touch. But like always she feels a thrill at this, at the possibility of something illicit, something that has been just out of her reach for years. Her resolve doesn’t crumple completely, though. Indeed, when he pulls her into his lap and she laces her fingers around his neck, part of her thrill comes from the glazed look in his eye and the way he relaxes under her touch. It’s a unique kind of power, and it is this that makes her feel that perhaps Cersei Lannister had the right of it. 

Petyr reaches out and brushes his fingers down her cheek, pushing a lose strand of her hair behind her ear. Alayne leans into his touch, silently telling herself that there is noting wrong with the twinge she felt deep inside. That there was nothing wrong with allowing herself to feel pleasure, just so long as she did not completely abandon her control.

“Something wrong?” Petyr asks, cupping her chin and meeting her eyes. She holds his gaze, straightens her back, and allows him to draw her in for a kiss; a small one, just the slightest brush of lips. She can taste the wine on his breath and wonders, briefly, if her own lips have that same sullied taste.

When they break apart, she gives him the slightest of smiles and studies how he reacts. His answering grin is lopsided, just a twitch of the side of his mouth, but she can tell that it is genuine. He hasn’t been very good at guarding himself lately. 

“I’m growing inpatient,” she responds, fingers in his hair. “Locked away here.”

Petyr spreads his fingers until he is cupping her cheek, and clucks his tongue. “Patience is a virtue, Alayne.”

She expected such an answer. Still, she sighs, hoping that this play of impatience will draw him further in. It seems to work; as she shifts her weight on his lap she can feel the press of his cock against the back of her thigh, accompanied by a barley noticeable sharp intake of breath. She stills her face, keeping her innocent mask, though she’s not able to keep her cheeks from burning. Part of the thrill, she knows, comes from how _easy_ this will be and the very thought of such power. The rest—ah, but she is still a woman, is she not?

The blush could be seen as a weakness, but it only strengthens her act. Petyr caresses her cheekbone, clearly admiring the color in her pale face, and draws her in for a deeper kiss. She presses herself against him, heart racing.

When Petyr pulls away he rests his lips at her ear. His voice is low, caressing her as his fingers work on her back, his touch making her shiver. Alayne lets her eyes flutter closed as she listens to him, and tries to steady her breathing.

“There are distractions,” he mutters and then pulls back just enough to meet her eyes. They are cloudy with lust and drink, reflecting his smirk (unusual that his eyes and his mouth should match) and she knows his purpose at once. 

Again, she expected it, but still her heart pounds so violently she is sure he can feel it. She tells herself that it is only nerves, building up her courage for something distasteful that still must be done. But Alayne can’t fool herself completely. Alayne knows that that is not the complete truth. 

Annoyed with herself, she presses down against him, savoring his slight shudder. 

“Are there?” she asks, proud of her clipped and playful tone. 

Petyr drops one hand from her back and rests it on her leg, gradually smoothing it up over her stocking and under her skirts. His fingers graze the soft flesh of her thigh, and she can’t hold back her sharp intake of breath.

Petyr cocks an eyebrow at her, as if challenging her. 

Her hands leave his hair and trail down his chest, pinning him lightly against his chair. A small act of dominance, perhaps fruitless, but it sends a shock of power through her. She puts on her cockiest smile. “I don’t know what you could mean.”

His free hand grips her waist, hard, and he rolls his hips up into her. Her slender fingers grip at the silk of his doublet and his mouth finds purchase on her neck.

Alayne burrows her face against his shoulder, trying to stifle her cries, biting and enjoying the tremors that pass through his body. _It’s me, it’s all me._

But she mustn’t forget her purpose here, even if he seems, unintentionally, to be doing his best to distract her from that. He runs his lips up her jaw, and she catches his face in one hand and forces him to met her eyes.

“It’s dangerous,” she says, softy, “For me to go to my marriage spoiled? What if Harrold knows?”

Petyr smirks at her, as if the answer is obvious. “There are ways to hide most any truth. You should know that.” He kisses her, lightly, teasing. “With your charms, you can get him to believe most anything.”

She waits a beat before responding, just as she had practiced in bed last night. “And what if I were to tell him the truth?”

Petyr’s still smirking, but his glazed-over expression takes a slightly darker hue, if only for a moment. “Why ever would you do that?”

It’s her turn to smirk. “If I’m going to give you something you want, you need to do something for me. If you fail—or take without my agreement—what’s to stop me from telling him that you defiled me? And surely no man would believe a daughter would let her father _willingly_ spoil her.”

Petyr stares at her for a long time, as if seeing her first the first time. Then his smirk widens into a fuller, genuine grin. “Clever girl.”

Alayne can’t help herself from smiling back. She grabs one of his hands and drags it back up her skirt, bringing it to rest on the damp section of her smallclothes. Petyr groans deep and caresses her outer lips through the wet fabric, his fingers more than skilled. She devours his mouth in a kiss, exploring with her tongue, enjoying the scratch of his beard.

“I know I have something you want,” she says against his lips, and as if to prove her point he pushes aside the fabric and teases her clit, briefly, drawing a strangled whine out of her. He’s watching her face intently, waiting for her next move.

She struggles to find her voice again. She forgets all of her well-practiced words under his touch, but not the underlining idea. “I’ll let you have it. And I’ll go along with your lies. But give me something in return, or I will drag you down.”

Petyr rests a finger just at her entrance, pushing the tip inside. She looks through him, watches him struggle between his desire and what he knows is the smart thing to do. She presses down into his hand, taking a bit more of his finger inside and rocking against his cock. And that settles it.

“What do you want?” 

She doesn’t smile this time. She can’t let him see her full hand, not now, even as her heart flutters with her victory. She reaches down and grips him through his breeches, feeling heat even through the thick fabric, and rests her forehead against his. “I want justice for those who killed my father.”

Alayne tries not to make her close observation of him too noticeable. And with the rate his reaction changes it is hard to take it all in—but his fingers tense inside of her, his hand on her waist tightens, and his eyes dart across her features, trying to see how much she knows.

Her own face remains a mask. _Detachment is more than useful,_ she thinks. And usually Petyr is quite good at it, which makes his current lack of it all the more delicious. 

His hand ghosts up her side, grasps her clothed breast. His fingers trace the swell at the top of her bodice, move up the side of her neck, and tangle in her hair. She blushes, casts her eyes down in a gesture of innocence, and he breaks. 

He kisses her frantically, pledging to help her in this, if only for a taste of her. Alayne returns his kisses, victorious. 

His hands are shaking too hard to properly undo his laces and she helps him. Once freed she runs a hand down his cock and grips it, experimentally. Her mind is a fog, her thoughts confused and muddled. Her success threatens to be overtaken by her physical pleasure. When he’s ready to enter her he looks at her for approval, his eyes full of wonder. She almost feels guilty. _He wants me to love him, more than anything._  
But this passes when she nods her head and he fills her, and she lets out a sharp moan against his shoulder. The act is less elegant than she expected, but not really as painful. The rush she got from his agreement, the fact that he wants her so much that he is willing to sign his own death warrant, and the baser pleasures of the flesh combine to negate any discomfort.

Petyr says nothing; in fact, he still seems a bit dazed that this is happening. He holds her into place with his hands on her waist but lets her dictate the pace. Alayne keeps her mouth presses against his neck, letting him hear all her moans and feel her tremors, listening to the pounding of his heart, almost in time with her own. 

She allows him to kiss her, deeply, running her hands through his hair and gripping the back of his chair. His fingers nearly turn white as she meets his frantic thrusts, and she falls into heavy shakes when he grips her clit between thumb and forefinger, giving her a sweeter release than she had ever given herself. 

Alayne drops against him, exhausted, as he finishes. He kisses her again, sweetly, and then lays kisses on the tops of her breasts, rubbing his hands in small circles against her back. She watches him out of the corner of her eye, taking into account his flushed cheeks and ragged breath. 

“We shouldn’t have done that,” he says, almost to convince himself. She kisses his forehead, teasing. Her body is weak, she’s spoiled, but strangely she has never felt stronger. 

“It will be alright. I’ll keep my promise.” She leaves his agreement unspoken. 

Standing up on shaking legs, his hands don’t leave her until she moves just out of reach. Something about the tight grip saddens her, but that is a line of thought she would rather not pursue. Fixing her skirts about her, she takes her leave with a final kiss. 

\---

Back in her rooms she strips and examines her body in detail, searching for a change. There are some slight marks along her legs and waist, dried seed and blood along the inside of her thigh, and she surprises herself by not washing that away. Other than that she looks much the same, but can’t help but feel dramatically altered.

In bed, she runs one hand over the stain, finally resting it on the now aching lips between her legs, and thinks how pleasant it is to have such power.


End file.
